


Beg like you mean it

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (no I'm not), Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Alternative Universe - FBI, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, FBI Agent Crowley, Human AU, I had a waking dream of shower sex and this is what it became. I'm sorry, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rape/Non-con Elements, Serial Killer Lucifer, Sexual Violence, Shower Sex, The Following (TV Show) AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 02:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: “Can I at least ask your name? I don’t know what it is,” Crowley asks after a long, long minute.“Lucifer.”“Huh. It suits you.”“You get to stay here and not do anything,” Lucifer says and Crowley gives him a Look. “If you do, I’ll kill everyone here and it will be on you Agent.”





	Beg like you mean it

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Context for ya'll. I had a waking dream where I basically reimagined Mike and Roderick after the fight club scene. Mike is kidnapped and shower sex ensues. Then I turned it into Crowley/Lucifer because that's what I'm obsessed with that the moment. It then... got away from me... yeah... oops.
> 
> Warnings: mentions of violent sexual assault, necrophilia (mention), Crowley does not have a Good Time, dubious consent, non-consensual, rape. 
> 
> You have been warned.

Crowley hates dealing with serial killer cults now. In fact, he hates dealing with serial killers _and _cults as is but he hates them _even more_ when some idiot thinks it’s a good idea to mix the two together to see what happens. This whole case has been…insane, really. From the start with the absolute lunacy of Gabriel Vance escaping and then being recaptured, of those Poe impersonators, of it all. And now Crowley is lying in a hospital bed, recovering from being kidnapped, beaten, and then stabbed on top of said beating. So yeah, he absolutely _hates _bloody serial killer cults.

The hospital itself isn’t all that bad truth be told but Crowley hasn’t liked hospitals for years now and it’s not like he’s about to start liking them _now_. Especially when it’s the middle of the night, he has two local sheriffs stationed outside on guard-duty and he’s not able to sleep because they took him off the morphine yesterday and refuse to give him anything for the pain. Not that he really needs anything for it, Crowley is pretty used to pain and can handle a lot of it, but it’s not exactly fun to be denied relief in an actual fucking hospital. Absolutely ridiculous really. But American healthcare is what it is; a train-wreck that won’t stop hurtling across the tracks even though it’s a flaming pile of shit with added insurance claims.

It’s the middle of the night and all Crowley wants to do is _sleep_. Instead he’s stuck with the pain and discomfort of sewn together skin, tender innards, and the bruises from having his hand-to-hand skills not being up to par with paramilitary lunatics who join crazy cults like Carol’s. Fuck but what he wouldn’t do for his phone right now, at least he could play some snooker or pool or something to pass the time. Maybe even read a book. But no. No technology allowed, not after the stunt Crowley pulled before he got kidnapped; Michael is a _dick_ of the highest orders but the guy _is_ good at his job of damage control. Washington bureaucrats usually are though.

So here Crowley is. Bored. In pain. Unable to sleep. And that all sucks. It’s hellish really. Beelzebub was by earlier to thank him for doing his damned job protecting Fell, like Crowley was gonna just give the guy up to his ex’s crazy little cult members. But Beelzebub was friends with Fell—probably as close as they could get to anyone and even that wasn’t all that close—so they’d come by and thanked him. Still called him a “little demon bastard” for knowing and not telling them—well, that and a “traitor” but it was all said with that begrudging acceptance Crowley always got from people who wanted to hate him. He was good at worming his way inside people’s defences like that; like a snake in the grass.

Unfortunately however, Crowley isn’t the only snake in the grass that exists and this particularly snake easily gets past the two sheriffs standing guard by sending them off with a flash of a smile and a badge. Crowley doesn’t notice, eyes closed, as he tries to at least rest his eyes if not actually sleep. He’s actually sort of in a doze—the kind he used to manage when listening to very boring lecturers in college and would still take it in but also just not too—when the door opens and he opens his eyes slowly. Maybe he’s gonna get a reprieve from the pain and the doctor on the ward has decided to give him something after all?

Crowley squints in the dim light from the lights in the room set for ‘sleep hours’ and shifts a bit in the bed, head tilting to the side. “Hey,” Crowley says. He’s quiet because it’s late and because—well—it’s just a thing people do at night, they whisper a lot. “Shift change? Thought that was at six.”

The officer, whoever they are, moves towards Crowley’s bed with the kind of deliberate approach Crowley sees in people who have A Purpose and are Going To Fulfil It No Matter What. Whatever this officer is about, Crowley isn’t sure he’s going to like it because this doesn’t seem right so he squirms in the bed, pushing himself up until he’s sitting. Just as Crowley reaches for the alert button to call for help, the officer’s face is lit up by light from outside the windows and Crowley freezes. It’s all the time the officer needs to close the last bit of distance and wrap a hand around Crowley’s wrist, the other going for his neck only there’s something in that other hand that glints in the dim light and Crowley’s eyes widen.

He starts to let out a sound, starts to shout for help but it’s too late because the needle pierces his neck and deposits its contents quicker than it has any right to and then- then Crowley is falling. The world goes fuzzy and his body is numb and a sedative shouldn’t work this quickly should it? Crowley doesn’t really know. He thought sedatives only worked this quick in the movies. Maybe he was wrong. Or maybe it’s a really fucking big dose.

It doesn’t matter in the end because the last thing Crowley is aware of is a hand touching his head, his hair, and then there’s nothing but oblivion.

* * *

The vibration is what brings him back to the land of consciousness. Or it’s the first thing Crowley becomes aware of when he wakes up. Either way, Crowley realises he’s in a car being taken somewhere—kidnapped _again_—only this time he isn’t stuck in the trunk. Instead he’s in the passenger seat, buckled in nice and safely, but his hands are handcuffed behind his back and he can’t really do much with them there. So he opts to open his eyes and look at the driver.

“You’re making a mistake you know that right?”

The driver ignores him. Crowley grits his teeth.

“I mean, kidnapping me once was a mistake,” Crowley continues, “but a second time? You guys must be _real_ desperate to find Fell for your precious master Gabriel. What—he give you all the frowny face of disapproval for not finding him yet? Aww. That’s so sad.”

The one thing that Crowley is always, always good at is this: pissing people off. Sometimes he can do it just by _existing _in their presence, other times he has to work at it, but he always manages to succeed. So it’s really no surprise then that he finds himself painting the window with spit when he’s backhanded without warning.

“You shouldn’t push me Agent Crowley,” the driver says then, when Crowley is shaking his head to try and get the ringing out of his ears. “I don’t want to kill you just yet, but I will if you make me. So just sit back and relax. We’ve got a way to go yet.”

“Where are we going?”

The driver smiles. “Well, first we’re stopping at a motel for the night but after that?” He gives Crowley a look that Crowley _really _doesn’t like. “I know some nice places. You might enjoy yourself if you don’t do anything to piss me off.”

“But pissing you off is the only thing I can do to pass the time,” Crowley retorts, leaning back in his seat when the driver’s face turns cold.

“Pissing me off will end up with you locked in the trunk with no water for the next seven hours, Agent.”

Crowley gets the message Loud and Clear. Shut up. So that’s what Crowley does. The warning in those words, the threat in them, is enough to force any comeback to stay behind his teeth for the duration of the journey.

Crowley really doesn’t want to be locked in the trunk.

“Can I at least ask your name? I don’t know what it is,” Crowley asks after a long, long minute. He has an idea what the driver’s name is but he’s also not going to reveal that in case he’s wrong—or worse, in case he’s _right_. If he’s right, then there’s a good chance he might be rescued before long. If he’s wrong though…

“Lucifer.”

“Huh. It suits you.” Crowley doesn’t say anything else beyond that and the car is silent again.

About an hour after Crowley wakes up he falls asleep again, the constant motion and vibration of the car sending him into an uneasy sleep that lasts until after they’ve pulled into a highway motel.

“You get to stay here and not do anything,” Lucifer says and Crowley gives him a Look. “If you do, I’ll kill everyone here and it _will_ be on you Agent.”

“_Fine_.” Crowley hisses and stays in the car while Lucifer fixes the badge on his shirt—not the same as the one Crowley remembers from the hospital and shit- do these guys have access to multiple police forces? Shit—before heading over to the motel office. Crowley looks around in the car—not a cruiser, just a regular old car really—for something, anything he can use but he’s pretty much stuck inside. The bastard even put the child-locks on, how fucking rude.

Lucifer doesn’t take long to return to the car, unlocking it only when he’s stood at the passenger side door and can open it in a way that means Crowley can’t kick it and send the bastard sprawling on the ground. Pity really, Crowley would have liked to have done that a lot.

“Come on Agent,” Lucifer says, reaching in and effortlessly pulling Crowley out of the car by the arm. Crowley can’t exactly fight the motion, not when he’s got his hands behind his back and he’s folded up in the seat like an unhappily scrunched up piece of paper, so he lets Lucifer pull him out of the car and shut the door without issue. “And don’t try anything, please. There’s a family with kids here and I’d hate to kill the little kiddies in front of you for fighting me.”

Crowley lets Lucifer guide him away from the car toward the last room the motel has—obviously an intentional choice of Lucifer’s and he probably told the motel manager that Crowley was a criminal or something else to get the room with no one else nearby—and inside without issue. He only tries something when they’re behind the door and Lucifer doesn’t expect it. If he had, Crowley doubts he’d have managed to actually get any distance between them.

Crowley slams his head back and although he doesn’t hit Lucifer’s nose—the bastard turned his head at the wrong moment damn it—there’s still enough force in the motion to make the cult member stagger back. Then, before Lucifer can recover, Crowley turns on his heel and rams a shoulder into his stomach, making Lucifer double over. That gives Crowley time to get away from the cult member but the distance is quickly closed when Lucifer recovers from the shoulder to the stomach and charges after him.

Crowley is tackled into the bed, face-first, and he struggles beneath Lucifer, legs kicking, arms twisting, whole body writhing and trying to find the purchase, the leverage needed to get Lucifer off him. It’s useless however, Lucifer has a solid fifty pounds on Crowley and is broader than Crowley’s beanpole form. All Crowley succeeds in doing is tiring himself out.

“You’re quick,” Lucifer comments above him. Crowley has his head turned to the side so he can breathe and out of the corner of his eye he can see Lucifer staring down at him. “Almost forgot how quick you are Agent. Very slippery.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Crowley spits, words muffled by the bed, and he kicks out again, anger and adrenaline giving him some strength to do so. It doesn’t even make Lucifer’s balance shift. “You’re insane.”

“We’re all insane, Agent,” Lucifer replies genially, leaning down so his face is close to Crowley’s. Every time he breathes, Crowley feels the hot breath on his neck. He doesn’t like the feeling. “Some of us just admit it without shame. You should try it.”

“Murdering people isn’t high on my To Do list, sorry,” Crowley says and Lucifer sighs. The breath tickles the hairs on Crowley’s neck. His arms shift at the sensation.

“Shame.” Lucifer hums. “Come on,” he says suddenly, “up you get, Agent.”

Crowley is dragged to his feet unceremoniously, the rough treatment making his side ache. Being pinned to the bed didn’t help but being dragged around the motel room definitely isn’t either. He hisses out a breath between clenched teeth but Lucifer ignores him, pulling him in the direction of the bathroom.

“You need a shower.”

“What? No. No way!” Crowley throws his weight back, literally digging his heels in even when it makes his side burn.

“You reek of hospital, Agent.” Lucifer gives him a look. “Can’t have you smelling like that now, people might notice.”

“And then they’d report it and you’d get shot and I’d be rescued,” Crowley snaps but he knows that’s not how it’d go just as much as Lucifer does. Still, it’s nice to think it might. “Yeah no, think I’m good.”

“It’s not a suggestion, Agent.”

Crowley doesn’t have a choice then when Lucifer suddenly jabs him in his side and all he’s aware of is _pain, pain, pain_ for several long, agonising minutes. By the time he’s able to focus on something beyond the pain, Crowley’s breathing is ragged and he’s in the bathroom, being forcibly undressed by a gods-damned serial killer.

At some point in the few minutes where Crowley checked-out Lucifer has removed Crowley’s jacket and shirt and handcuffed his hands in front of him before moving on to his pants. He jerks away from the touch of Lucifer’s hands on his belt and the cult member doesn’t even blink, just reaches up and grabs the chain of the handcuffs and _yanks_. Crowley falls to his knees painfully and then has his head pulled back by his hair at a painful angle.

Lucifer looks at him with a displeased expression on his face and Crowley feels more vulnerable than he ever has before. Back when he’d first been kidnapped and stuffed in the trunk, made to fight surrounded by cult members like a pack of animals, Crowley thought he’d never feel so exposed ever again. He was wrong.

“The more you fight me, Agent, the more I’ll hurt you,” Lucifer says. “You’re making me hurt you when there’s no need.”

Crowley stares up at Lucifer with a glare, angry and afraid and so, so vulnerable that he wants to shrink away from everything, find a little dark hole to hide and avoid the world in. Instead he’s forced to arch his back, pulling on his side, and breathe in sharp little breaths. He remains completely still when Lucifer reaches down and resumes undoing his belt, then the zipper of his pants and Crowley tenses.

Lucifer gives him an amused look.

“If you hadn’t tried to escape, I was going to let you shower alone,” the cult member says and Crowley tenses further. “I can’t trust you now obviously, so I guess I’ll just have to stay in here while you clean yourself up.”

“How am I going to escape from inside a room that doesn’t even have a _window_?” Crowley asks snidely, the hand gripping his hair tightening in warning.

“I’m sure you’d think of something, Agent.”

That’s probably as close to a compliment as Lucifer is capable of giving Crowley and he’s not sure he likes that fact. The idea of a serial killer, a corrupt police officer, and a cult member complimenting him is… it’s just _not right_. But Crowley is pretty weak for any sort of compliment or positive comments and his psyche doesn’t care that this particular compliment has a source of dubious mortality.

Traitorous bastard psyche.

Something must change in Crowley’s expression because Lucifer smirks and suddenly pulls him to his feet by his _hair_. Crowley lets out a sharp hissed cry from the pain of hair follicles being ripped out of his scalp and scrambles to his feet which allows Lucifer to push his pants down to his ankles. The material tangled around his ankles restricts his movements so Crowley has to step out of them. The only thing he’s left in then are his boxers and he tries to cover himself with his handcuffed hands but Lucifer grabs the chain of the cuffs and stops him. Crowley’s face heats up from the way Lucifer gives him a slow look up-and-down.

“You’ll need to lose those,” the cult member says, eyes flicking down at Crowley’s crotch. “Not nice wearing wet boxers. Have to go commando otherwise.”

Crowley shivers. “I can do that myself thanks,” he bites out. He’s not getting out of being forced to take a shower which is not fun, and he knows why Lucifer is doing it. It’s all one big fucking power play and fuck but Crowley hates that it’s _working_.

Lucifer shrugs. “Fair enough.”

Then the serial killer steps back, hands not touching Crowley at all, and leans against the wall by the bathroom door. Crowley turns away, self-conscious in a way he’s not normally, and turns the shower on. The water warms up quicker than he expects it to and he has no time at all to dawdle. The longer he stands here the higher the chance that Lucifer will run out of patience and strip him of the one piece of clothing Crowley still has on.

With a deep, bated breath, Crowley quickly sheds his boxers, dropping them on the bathroom floor just moments before stepping into the shower. He goes to close the shower curtain but Lucifer’s voice stops him.

“Leave it.”

Crowley looks at the cult member who is watching him. “What?”

“Leave it,” Lucifer repeats.

“The floor’ll get soaked,” Crowley says.

“Don’t care. Leave it.”

Crowley breathes out heavily and turns away, cursing internally. Fucking fuck. He literally is being denied _any _privacy from Lucifer and it’s worse than having the shit kicked out of him by a trained soldier. It’s worse than being stabbed. This loss of personal protection, of privacy.

He quickly soaps up, efficient in a way he’s never been before. Crowley barely even really lets his hair get wet before he’s ready to get out. He turns in the shower, hands going to the knobs of the shower when he’s stopped by an arm curling around his waist, trapping his arms against his sides, and a hot body pressing against his back under the spray.

“What are you doing?” Crowley exclaims, struggling against the embrace but the shower is pretty small and he’s got no way of actually getting out of Lucifer’s embrace. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t try, of course. But kicking in the shower is a bad idea because it’s _slippery_ and Crowley ends up with his shoulder pressed against the cold tile, hands trapped against the tiles with Lucifer pressing into him and preventing Crowley from doing _anything_.

“Relax,” Lucifer says and Crowley scoffs. Relax! Sure. _Not_. “The guy in the office—got two kids he’s raising on his own by the way—said that the water doesn’t stay hot for too long after eleven and you’re taking a lifetime in here.” Lucifer drops his head down to lean over Crowley’s shoulder and look at the agent. “So we get to share. You missed your hair though, so I guess I’ll do that for you.”

Crowley opens his mouth to snap that _no, no Lucifer can’t _but what comes out is a squeak of surprise when Lucifer literally pulls his head back, into the spray. Crowley coughs and splutters as the water slams into his face, soaking his hair and plastering it to his head, trying to pull his head out from under the spay but Lucifer holds him there, using his body and the fact that Crowley’s pinned between Lucifer and the wall. Crowley’s never been drowned before. He can’t say he likes it.

Lucifer abruptly lets his head go and Crowley all-but falls against the tiles, the wall and Lucifer’s body the only things keeping him upright as he coughs and hacks up water. The sound of a cap opening with a click echoes in Crowley’s ears but it blends in with the pounding cacophony of his blood and racing heart. He only registers things outside of his burning lungs and sore throat when there’s a hand in his hair again. Crowley jerks away, flinching, but the arm around his waist keeps him still as fingers work their way through his hair, rubbing on his scalp and working in what Crowley realises is shampoo.

Lucifer is literally shampooing his hair after trying to drown him. What the _fuck_.

By the time the shampoo is worked into Crowley’s hair, the agent has his breathing back under control and is as tense as a violin string about to snap under the tension. He wants to get out of this damned shower. He wants to get away from Lucifer. Actually, he wants to _shoot the bastard_ but he’ll settle for just getting away from him.

Instead he gets his head pulled back under the spray and only a few seconds to take a deep breath and hold it. Maybe Lucifer notices, maybe he doesn’t, but all that Crowley knows is that he is not enjoying having his hair washed by a _serial killing cult member_ who has an unhealthy obsession with him.

Maybe Crowley shouldn’t have mouthed off in that empty warehouse when he’d been kidnapped the first time. Maybe Lucifer wouldn’t be so _interested _in him now if Crowley had just not been—well—_himself_.

He can’t change it now but it’d be nice if he had the option to at least. Especially now he’s having to stay still, holding his breath and, worst of all, with his eyes _closed _to avoid getting the shampoo in his eyes. It leaves him entirely open and vulnerable and he knows it’s what Lucifer wanted in the first place. This weakness from Crowley.

It doesn’t change anything to know it though. If anything, it makes Crowley feel _worse _because he should be able to fight this, to not give in, not fall prey to the same psychological tricks he’s studied and worked hard to understand in his career. But he’s only human and humans are predictable no matter what.

And that gives Lucifer all the power here and Crowley absolutely none.

Lucifer keeps his head under the spray past the point where the shampoo is rinsed from his hair and all Crowley can do is keep holding his breath, unable to struggle or fight back. Eventually though, eventually he has to breath and when it happens Crowley does his absolute best to jerk his head out from under the spray. His mouth opens as his head turns, face angled out of the spray, and Crowley is hopeful for a long second before that hope is shattered when Lucifer simply leans back and takes Crowley’s whole upper-body with him, trapping him in the spray of the shower.

Water trickles down his throat, burns his chest, even as Crowley coughs and tries to spit it out but he’s staring up into the spray and it’s constant and it’s going to _kill him_, he’s going to _die _and Crowley can’t do anything except wriggle and writhe against Lucifer’s body as the water burns and drowns him.

And then, again, it just stops. The spray is no longer drowning him, his head is out of it, and Crowley can _breathe _again. He’s barely able to stand upright as he hacks up more water—again—and breathes as deeply as he can, revelling in the chance to draw in lungful’s of air.

“You look so nice like this, Agent,” Lucifer says behind him, into Crowley’s ear, as he leans against the arm trapping him, unable to keep his balance when coughing up water. “Wet and weak definitely suits you.”

Crowley coughs one last time and chokes bitterly, “fuck you!”

Lucifer laughs. “Bit forward Agent, I haven’t even bought you dinner yet.”

Crowley tries to escape again, not liking the tone of Lucifer’s voice, but is brought up short when Lucifer leans down and nuzzles at the skin behind his ear. He freezes completely when Lucifer then licks a long, hot line along Crowley’s neck and along his collar bone.

“Stop.” Crowley’s voice is weak, as weak as his body still is after being water-boarded in a shower by a serial killer, and it audibly shakes when Lucifer’s arm around him tightens and the serial killer uses his greater mass to press Crowley against the tiles. “Stop it.”

“But Agent,” Lucifer murmurs into Crowley’s skin, “I’m starving and you offered me a meal. How can I possibly stop now?” The hand Lucifer used to pull Crowley’s head back before slides along Crowley’s waist to press against his abdomen. “I liked the look of you when we had you fighting for your life; I like you even more now.”

Crowley shuts his eyes, squeezes them tightly shut as Lucifer mouths at his neck, the slightest graze of teeth on his skin making him breath heavily. He can’t twist his arms enough to grip at Lucifer’s arm around his waist—the bastard chose the perfect place to pin his arms damn it—so all Crowley can do is stand in the shower with a serial killer wrapped around him. A serial killer that seems intent on molesting him.

How is this Crowley’s life?

“The feeling- the feeling _isn’t_ mutual,” Crowley bites out, gasps really, when the hand on his abdomen shifts down a little more and traces the groove of his pelvis down and fingers slide into pubic hair. There’s a soft scrape of nails on the sensitive skin down there that has Crowley, against his own wishes, shivering as his body reacts to the sensation. He’s always been sensitive. He’s never had cause to hate that fact about himself until now.

The arm around his waist suddenly isn’t there anymore and Crowley tries, he really does. He cants to the side, dislodging the fingers in his pubes—fingers dangerously close to his cock—and manages to take one step out of the shower before he’s pulled back in viciously. He brings his hands up with a sharp cry when he’s forced to take a step back with Lucifer in the cramped shower and the arm that had trapped his own arms to his side curls back around his waist. Crowley has his hand however—handcuffed as they are—free and he immediately reaches down and grabs the arm around his waist.

“Get off me!” Crowley half-bellows in the shower, spitting out water that he almost chokes on but Lucifer, naturally, ignores him. “Get off!”

“I’m trying actually,” Lucifer retorts, ignoring the hands on his arm since Crowley definitely doesn’t have the leverage to make the serial killer let go of him. “I’m even being nice and letting you have some fun too.”

Crowley’s face, red and flushed from the heat of the spray, pales. He shudders and digs his nails into Lucifer’s forearm. Tries to throw his head back and break Lucifer’s fucking nose. But he can’t. Lucifer doesn’t even flinch, just shifts his weight until Crowley _has _to let go and brace himself on the tiled wall with his handcuffed hands. It forces him to bend forward at the waist, pushing his hips back and Crowley’s chest heaves when he finally realises that there’s something pressing, hot and heavy, against his ass that he’s been ignoring this whole time.

Lucifer’s hand returns to his abdomen, this time rubbing soft circles on twitching skin, the muscles of Crowley’s abdomen fluttering with every circle those fingers make on his skin. It is the most gentle thing of this whole thing and for some reason it is the most terrifying too. Rape is one thing. Assault. Power. It’s about asserting control and stripping it from the victim. It’s about the rapist and their needs, whatever needs those are, being met by harming another person in a sexually base way. Lucifer, as Gabriel’s second-in-command, hadn’t struck him as a rapist the first time Crowley saw him. Not even in the middle of getting his ass kicked did the serial killer come across as sexually motivated. Perverse, yes. But not sexually so.

Maybe getting stabbed should have clued Crowley in but he’d been a bit distracted by pain and blood at that point and it hadn’t really registered. It’s registering now unfortunately.

“Even though you’ve been a pain, Agent, I want you to feel good too. It makes it better I feel,” Lucifer says, kissing along Crowley’s neck, tongue hot and branding when the serial killer pauses on one spot of skin every now and then. The fingers on Crowley’s abdomen shift, trail down and between his legs, and Crowley can’t help but whimper. “I know you want me, Agent. _The Agent doth protest too much_.”

Crowley wants to tell Lucifer to _fuck off and die_, but when he opens his mouth to do so the bastard runs his fingers over Crowley’s cock and instead the agent lets out a moan at the sensation. Lucifer grins against his neck, repeating the motion and Crowley snaps his jaw shut hard enough to knock his teeth together. He squirms in Lucifer’s embrace, hands pressed flat against the tiles, arms tense and muscles quivering as Lucifer continues to gently rub Crowley’s cock.

The longer the bastard rubs with those fingers, the harder it is for Crowley to ignore the sensation and his own reaction to it. When Lucifer’s hand curls around his half-hard cock, Crowley can’t help but hiss, hips bucking forward instinctively before he realises and he tries to draw back, away, but Lucifer keeps his hand where it is and instead Crowley feels the delicious friction of his cock fucking Lucifer’s hand.

Crowley’s head drops forward, eyes tightly shut as he breathes heavily, shaking and gasping at the way Lucifer just lets him fuck his hand. He should stop, he knows he should. This is just giving Lucifer more power. It’s Lucifer making Crowley _complicit in his own rape _but he can’t. He can’t. He aches and his body is on fire and Crowley doesn’t understand why he can’t stop but all he’s doing is being destroyed by the sensations, the friction.

And then Lucifer’s teeth are in the meat of his shoulder and Crowley shrieks, hips snapping forward. Lucifer’s hand around his cock tightens almost painfully as Crowley thrashes, tipping further forward as his arms give up supporting him and his face ends up pressed against the tiles. They’re cold and biting and it’s just more sensation that has Crowley keening at it all. His legs are shaking. He’s barely able to stand and Lucifer’s teeth are still embedded in his shoulder, hand still around his cock squeezing so, _so tight _and Crowley can’t- he can’t-

With an almost pained groan Crowley comes, bucking into Lucifer’s hand and the serial killer strokes his cock, milking Crowley dry until he’s sensitive and the release of tension is being rapidly replaced by discomfort and something approaching pain as Lucifer’s hand keeps stroking him. Crowley whines, neck tensing and he can _feel _Lucifer’s teeth in his shoulder at the motion.

“Stop,” he pants, “please, please stop! I- I can’t- fuck!” Crowley whines. “_Please_.”

Crowley almost sobs with relief when Lucifer pulls away from his shoulder, the spray of the shower stinging his skin where Lucifer’s teeth have cut into his flesh, but the serial killer’s hand is still languidly stroking him and it’s _too much_.

“I can make you come again if I keep going you know?” Lucifer points out conversationally and Crowley’s chest heaves, mouth open. “But I think you’ll enjoy something else a little more.”

Mercifully, the hand on Crowley’s cock falls away and the agent’s legs collapse from the cessation of Lucifer’s torture of his cock. The serial killer is solid and easily strong enough that he doesn’t even stumble lifting Crowley up and leaving the shower. He steps through the motel room and lays Crowley down on the nearest bed to the bathroom—also conveniently the furthest from the front door—and Crowley curls up on his side, shaking. He’s starting to feel the cold, his skin damp and body thrumming with a mixture of emotions that have him feeling all out of sorts. Lucifer disappears from the side of the bed and if Crowley was more alert he’d be able to use this opportunity to get to the front door and escape. Instead, all he does is curl up tighter, shivering.

A warm towel touches his skin unexpectedly and Crowley jumps.

“Just drying you, Agent,” Lucifer explains, doing exactly that with great efficiency. “Can’t have you catching a cold now.”

Crowley is tense on the bed, hands drawn in close to his chest as he waits for the other shoe to drop. Only it doesn’t. Lucifer dries his legs, and hair, before letting Crowley clutch the towel to his chest and finish drying himself off—the first thing the bastard has done that gives Crowley _some _control here. While he’s drying his chest and arms, Lucifer dries himself off and Crowley watches him out of the corner of his eye. The serial killer hits the switch for the plug-in heater and the room warms up beyond what it already was.

What Crowley wants are his clothes but something about the fact that Lucifer is still nude—and Crowley doesn’t look at him _down there_, he _doesn’t_—and has just turned on the heater when the room is warm enough for clothes has the agent tensing up.

He’s too far from the door, handcuffed, naked, and Lucifer is between him and the door but Crowley still shifts on the bed in the direction of the door. His movements attract Lucifer’s laser-like focus and Crowley freezes.

_I think you’ll enjoy something else a little more._

Lucifer smirks at him. “Ready for round two, Agent?”

“Thanks but no thanks,” Crowley says and Lucifer’s smirk grows. “I’d like my clothes actually.”

“They’re the only set you’ve got right now, Agent, can’t have them getting _sticky _now,” Lucifer replies, approaching the bed and Crowley grips the towel in his hands.

It’s the only thing the agent has and he can use it as a weapon. He _can_.

Crowley springs into action the moment Lucifer is close enough to the bed. He uses his momentum to slam into Lucifer who is obviously expecting _something _because he spins them, using Crowley’s momentum to spin the agent around and back onto the bed in one fluid move. Crowley lands on the bed, breath knocked out of him, and starts to scramble up off the bed when Lucifer pins him down, using the towel and Crowley’s own handcuffed hands to force him to lie on the bed, arms above his head.

Crowley struggles, writhes, and bucks up, tries _everything _to get Lucifer off him but nothing works. Lucifer just presses him down on the bed more firmly, body flush against Crowley. The serial killers cock presses against Crowley’s crotch, brushing against his own cock that stirs from the adrenaline, friction, and _heat_. It makes Crowley hiss even as he forces his body to still, to try and avoid the friction that’s still so damned enjoyable. He can’t enjoy this. He can’t fall into that trap. He can’t. Crowley won’t let Lucifer do that to him.

Make him complicit.

Except he already is, isn’t he? Lucifer didn’t make Crowley fuck his hand in the shower, Crowley did that all by himself. Because Crowley is weak. Desperate and needy. And Lucifer is using that against him and Crowley is _letting him_.

Because he’s weak.

Lucifer stares down at Crowley, watching him and Crowley stares back up at the serial killer. He’s stopped fighting. Lucifer is going to do whatever he wants to him and Crowley can’t fight him. He won’t win. He’s too desperate. Too needy.

It doesn’t matter that Crowley knows academically that he’s falling into the pattern of compliance in order to survive. It doesn’t matter that he’s doing exactly what countless other people have done in the same situation as him. It doesn’t matter because Crowley is too weak to stop Lucifer and too weak to not want the friction. He’s just weak.

Lucifer leans down, brings his face close to Crowley’s own, and the agent flinches back into the bed at the proximity. It makes the cult member smile, the fact that Crowley is afraid of him. Crowley knows that Lucifer wants him to be afraid, that there’s a limit to how much anger Crowley can feel and how much fear he can channel into sarcasm and defence mechanisms. Crowley’s all out of defences. His sarcasm has run dry in the face of what he knows is about to happen.

Because he was too weak to escape when he had the chance.

Lucifer is still smiling when he kisses him and Crowley can feel the curl of the serial killer’s lips against his own, the heat and more abrasive texture. He keeps his eyes open, staring at Lucifer who stares back before Crowley has to look away, close his eyes, _pretend this isn’t happening_. Lucifer takes Crowley’s distraction as the opportunity it is to roll his hips down and slide over Crowley’s crotch. The sensation makes Crowley arch up, chest pressing against Lucifer’s above him, and he opens his mouth reflexively. Lucifer forces his tongue into Crowley’s mouth the moment Crowley opens his mouth, plundering his mouth as the serial killers continues to roll his hips, thrusting against Crowley. Crowley can’t do anything but moan and writhe uselessly beneath Lucifer, the sensation ripping into his mind and making him forget that he shouldn’t be giving in, that he needs to _fight this_.

Lucifer breaks the kiss off and Crowley, lost to the sensation, follows Lucifer’s lips on instinct before drawing back, eyes wide in horror. Lucifer rolls his hips again in time with the first touch of Lucifer’s lips on Crowley’s neck, tongue laving over hot skin while the serial killer sucks and nibbles Crowley’s neck. The hand not pinning Crowley’s to the bed roves over the agent’s body, pressing against the mostly faded bruises Lucifer must have noticed in the shower, and Crowley hisses at the spark of pain that blends with the delicious friction against his cock and the sucking and nibbling of his neck. It mixes into a heady concoction that has him throwing his head back, arms tense, hands searching for something to grip on to, and his own hips rocking up against Lucifer’s searching for _more_.

“Do you want me, Agent?” Lucifer pants into Crowley’s ear, grinding down against Crowley’s crotch and forcing the agent’s cock to press against Crowley’s stomach. The pressure and friction has him whining, neck taught, eyes squeezed shut, hips twitching. “Do you want me?” He repeats, grinding down again.

Crowley whines.

“Do—you—want—me?” Each word is followed by Lucifer grinding against Crowley making the agent keen desperately.

He doesn’t want to say it. He _doesn’t_. He won’t. He can’t. It- he-

“Yes! _Yes_!”

Lucifer grinds down particularly roughly and Crowley cries out, thrashing on the bed. His side is on fire but the pain just mixes with the rest of it all and Crowley doesn’t know what’s pain and what’s pleasure. He’s lost in it. Lucifer’s head dips down and he captures Crowley’s lips in a messy, open-mouthed kiss that Crowley keens into.

Lucifer shifts his hips, lifting away from Crowley who whines and arches up, following him. The serial killer uses his free hand to press Crowley’s hips down against the bed, making him whine more, before shifting about until he’s kneeling between Crowley’s legs rather than over them. He uses his knees to push Crowley’s legs apart. The act serves to return to Crowley some of his senses and the agent tenses up again, realising what’s going to happen; what he _agreed to_.

_Fuck_.

Crowley turns his head, breaking the kiss, panting heavily as anxiety builds in his chest alongside the churning desire in his gut that makes his hips twitch spasmodically. He wants so bad to just let go, let Lucifer fuck him and enjoy it because it’s going to happen no matter what, but Crowley hates himself for it. Hates himself for enjoying it. For wanting it. It’s disgusting and shameful, wanting to be fucked by your rapist. Because that’s what Lucifer is.

He’s going to rape Crowley.

He’s already sexually assaulted him in the fucking shower. And now? Now the serial killer is going to hit a home run and do to Crowley what he’s probably wanted to do from the beginning. There’s nothing Crowley can do to stop it so… _why not enjoy it?_ He’s probably going to die after—Lucifer will kill him—so Crowley might as well enjoy the last fuck he’s ever going to have.

Fuck, but that’s so fucked up. Thinking like that. But it is what it is. So Crowley lets it happen.

Lucifer’s hand curls around his cock, it having flagged a little when the realisation hit that he was going to get fucked, and Crowley moans at the sensation. A thumb glosses over the tip of the head of his cock, spreading pre-cum and Crowley’s moan deepens into a groan. Lucifer smirks at him, the hand gripping Crowley’s own and pressing them into the bed releasing slowly in time with the other hand on Crowley’s cock shifting, wrist twisting and making Crowley’s hip twitch up.

If Crowley had more awareness, was able to ignore the burning throbbing of his cock being thoroughly worked, he might be able to use his hands and escape. But he doesn’t because he’s too torn by the way Lucifer turns his wrist _just so _and Crowley’s hips rock up, heels digging into the bed, as he cries out. It’s not enough, he needs more, but it’s _so good_ and Crowley- Crowley doesn’t want it to end.

Because he’s pathetic and weak and _wants_.

He wants to enjoy this because it’s going to be the last vaguely good thing he’ll ever experience. After this will come pain and blood and torture and death. Lucifer is being a bastard but he’s showing Crowley some mercy by letting the agent get some pleasure out of being fucked in a motel room, handcuffed, naked, and kidnapped. So fuck it. He may as well let it happen.

And drag some fucking enjoyment from this nightmare before he’s dead and gone.

The hand Lucifer used to pin Crowley’s hands to the pin moves down, further and further, until it’s between Crowley’s legs, fingers curling around Crowley’s balls and pulling them lightly. Crowley moans, arms still above his head, arching on the bed. The hand around Crowley’s cock keeps him from arching too far, tightening at the base of his cock and making the agent whine.

“How much do you want me, Agent?” Lucifer asks, twisting the hand around the base of Crowley’s cock and pressing behind Crowley’s balls with his fingers enough that it makes Crowley’s body twitch and shudder violently. “How much will you beg for?”

Crowley hisses.

Those fingers pressing at the point where his balls hang down press harder and it’s near painful now. Crowley’s legs tremble.

“Beg me Agent,” Lucifer demands darkly, voice deep. “Beg me to fuck you.”

Whatever rebelliousness in Crowley rears its head long enough for him to hiss a curse at Lucifer and the serial killer responds by gripping Crowley’s balls suddenly in a vice grip. It has Crowley shrieking and thrashing on the bed, arms coming up to try and grab at Lucifer who ignores his weak attempts to get him to let go.

“Beg me Agent or I’ll fuck you dry until you’re bleeding and then I’ll fuck you again and again until there’s nothing left of you to fuck,” Lucifer growls. The hand around Crowley’s cock tightens so much Crowley’s entire body is no longer enjoying things and is instead screaming in pain and fear. “And I’ll keep fucking you until you’re unrecognisable to whoever finds you. I guess your dear daddy might have to be the one to identify your body and I guarantee he’ll know what I’ve done to you. I’ll make sure of it. Tell him myself I have to.”

Lucifer leans down, face scant inches from Crowley’s own. The agent stares up at him, eyes wide in horror, mouth open as he whines from the pain. “Just imagine what I could do to your body in the morgue, after all, you’re the only one who knows I’m a cop too. They’ll not even think twice about letting me in to check your effects. I can fuck your ass while you’re on a cold, hard slab and go and comfort your father ten minutes later.”

“So,” Lucifer leans back then, giving Crowley an expectant look. “_Beg me_.”

Crowley has tears in his eyes and his heart is pounding in his chest from the sheer terror and horror of the scenes Lucifer has painted in broad strokes with his words. The agent has absolutely no choice and he doubts Lucifer is going to be gentle with him now. If he keeps fighting however, Crowley knows Lucifer will make good on his word. Crowley doesn’t want to die from anal tears and being fucked so hard. Because even if Lucifer can’t keep fucking him with his own cock, Crowley has no doubt the serial killer will use whatever is at hand to keep going. The lamp. The bottles in the trash. Even the toilet scrubber.

Anything goes when it comes to rape.

“Please.” Crowley coughs, voice shaking because he’s _afraid _and pretending is useless. “Please.”

“Please ‘what’, Agent?”

“Please fuck me.”

Lucifer smiles. “Keep begging me, Agent,” he instructs, loosening his grip around Crowley’s balls, making the agent gasp in relief. “Beg me like you _mean_ it.”

“Please!” Crowley gasps, voice hitching when Lucifer’s fingers scratch over his balls. He forces himself to look away from the serial killer, shuts his eyes and tries to pretend this is just a _game_. He can’t keep this going if he- he just _can’t_. “Fuck me!” The hand around his cock loosens, slides up and down and Crowley’s cock hardens again at the repetitive motion.

“Keep going.”

Crowley thrusts up in to the hand, eyes still tightly shut. “Fuck me please, please! I need- please- _please_!” The longer he pretends, the easier it is to ignore the fear in his veins, feeding him like oxygen to his body. It doesn’t go away but it blends, mixes in with the slowly pooling desire building back up in his abdomen with every stroke of his cock, every fingernail scratching lightly along his balls, until the agent is writhing on the bed, hips twitching up with every stroke.

He doesn’t stop whimpering, gasping little breaths the longer this exquisite torture goes on for. When Lucifer lets go of his balls, Crowley whines out a desperate “_please_” and the serial killer laughs quietly at how pathetically desperate Crowley is. Crowley hates it. Hates that he’s like this. That he can’t stop wanting the touch. That the fear has mixed with the desire and the lingering pain and become this heady, thought-stripping concoction Crowley is drunk on.

The hand trails down, behind his balls, pressing against his perineum and Crowley’s hips buck at the contact.

“Fuck!” He cries out, eyes snapping open as his hands reach for something, _anything _to grip. They end up gripping Lucifer’s shoulder above him and the serial killer smirks down at him. Crowley stares back up at him, eyes wide, mouth open, and he whines when Lucifer presses his thumb against his perineum and _rubs_. “Oh _fuck_!”

Lucifer tilts his head to the side, staring down at Crowley, _watching _his face as the serial killer rubs his perineum and strokes his cock in tandem. Crowley’s eyes roll back in his head at the sensation of his cock being fucked and his prostate being externally stimulated, neck taught as he groans and pants heavily.

Lucifer ducks down, teeth latching into Crowley’s neck just when the serial killer shifts his fingers and presses against Crowley’s hole. The agent yelps at the teeth in his neck, the pain of them, and hisses when a finger pushes against his hole with unrelenting force. It hurts, burns, when the finger pushes through the first ring of muscle, bringing tears to Crowley’s eyes and he keens in pain and pleasure, cock still being stroked by Lucifer’s other hand.

“P-please!” He stutters. “It hurts!”

“That’s a shame,” Lucifer hums, continuing to push his finger into Crowley’s hole. The agent trashes beneath him, tries to get away from the pain, pain, pain, and Crowley is close to hyperventilating when the serial killer stops. “Do you want me to use something? Make it easier for you?”

Crowley nods. “Y-yes!” He pants, chest heaving. Lucifer looks down at him. “Please- please! U-use something—don’t- don’t fuck me—dry!”

Lucifer tilts his head. “Well,” he says, drawing the word out, “since you beg so prettily.”

Crowley sobs in relief when the finger pulls out of his hole and Lucifer releases his cock, but the relief quickly fades when the serial killer grabs his handcuffed hands and pulls them up above his head. He tugs against the serial killer’s hold but he’s weak, heart-pounding, body trembling, and he’s no match for Lucifer in a regular situation let alone the one he’s in.

Crowley doesn’t realise that Lucifer brought their clothes out of the bathroom with the towels until Crowley’s own _belt _is looped around the chain of the handcuffs. Lucifer efficiently threads the belt through the headboard of the bed, the motion dragging Crowley up the bed on his back. Crowley thrashes, heart pounding, eyes wide, absolutely terrified because now he’s _definitely_ not able to escape. It drives home how utterly at Lucifer’s mercy Crowley is in a way being kidnapped, handcuffed, forcibly stripped and molested in the shower, and, finally, pinned to a bed, doesn’t. All of that time, Crowley had _some _chance of maybe escaping. Of maybe overpowering Lucifer. Of _fighting back_.

Now he’s completely dependent on Lucifer for any kindness, any mercy, and the serial killer seems the type to change his mind on a whim. Lucifer _is _the type to change his mind on a whim.

“Be right back, don’t go anywhere.” Lucifer taps Crowley on the nose, grinning down at him and Crowley flinches. He watches the serial killer step away from the bed and head to the bathroom, intent on finding something to slick his fingers up so he can fuck Crowley.

Crowley pulls on the belt looped around the handcuffs, trying to reach for the buckle but Lucifer has secured his hands to the headboard in such a way that it’s impossible to reach the buckle and undo it. He still tries.

There’s the sound of a cabinet being opened and closed in the bathroom and Crowley freezes at the noise. His head whips around to stare at the bathroom. Lucifer reappears in the doorway, smirking.

“Found some lube a cleaner missed,” he says, “you’re lucky. If I hadn’t found this it’d have been the hand-soap.”

Lucifer crosses the motel room and kneels between Crowley’s legs again, the agent not daring to kick out or struggle. He’s in too vulnerable a position to really fight back in any way anymore. He just has to… lie back and accept it.

“It’s strawberry scented,” Lucifer says, reading the bottle. “Doesn’t say anything about taste though.” The cap on the lube is loud in the room, as loud as Crowley’s ragged breathing as he watches Lucifer coat his hands with the liquid. He drops the little bottle on the bed and settles back on his heels.

Crowley squirms uncomfortably on the bed, legs spread because of Lucifer between them, arms above his head, hands tied to the headboard, body exposed. His side is throbbing but it’s just one more sensation, one more thing that pulses and blends with everything else Crowley feels lying there, trapped and exposed.

Lucifer raises an eyebrow, smirking. “I thought I told you to beg, Agent.”

Crowley flinches back at the coldness of Lucifer’s voice. He shuts his eyes, takes a ragged breath, breaths out. “Please.”

Crowley’s whole body jerks at the hand that curls around his cock, cool and slick. It doesn’t move, remains curled around his cock loosely but the weight of it, the presence of Lucifer’s hand, has Crowley shivering. The more he begs, the kinder Lucifer will be. The kinder Lucifer will be because he wants to make Crowley hate himself just as much as he hates Lucifer.

“P-please…. please f-fuck me,” Crowley whimpers. “W-with your—your fingers—p-prepare me please.”

Lucifer hums, the hand around Crowley’s cock tightening and the loose warmth it provides becomes roiling heat that makes Crowley’s body tense. Crowley keeps his eyes firmly shut, refusing to look at Lucifer, to see him. It’s bad enough begging. Crowley is barely hanging on here, so close to just falling into what Lucifer wants him to be. He has no control except over his own mind and even that’s being eroded by the serial killer the longer this goes on.

“Please!” Crowley feels tears roll down his face. Humiliation. Self-hatred. Pain. Fear. It’s all bubbling over. He thrashes against the belt pinned his wrists, back arching, legs kicking out. “Just do it! Just fucking do it! Please! I- I can’t take this anymore! I just- I _can’t_!” He collapses back on the bed, sobbing.

The hand around his cock moves, working his cock hard _again _after everything, after all the turmoil and emotion has burned out of him and Crowley is limp on the bed. Lucifer leans down and does something Crowley doesn’t expect. He kisses him softly on the lips.

“Well now,” Lucifer says when Crowley opens his eyes, blinking back tears. “All you had to do was ask.”

Lucifer sits back up, smiling down at Crowley who stares at him. The serial killer wastes no time in slipping a finger back into Crowley, pushing through the ring of muscle and making slight jabbing motions that make the agent gasp. Crowley feels utterly wrung out and incapable of anything but the hand on his cock and the finger up his ass are relentless and his body responds to them regardless of how emotionally exhausted he is.

A second finger enters him, pushing and twisting and, when it joins the first finger, curls and presses against his prostate, Crowley’s whole body jerks off the bed. He keens, mouth open, trying to press down on the fingers inside him and up into the hand fucking his cock. When the pressure on his prostate eases, those fingers scissoring him and fucking into him instead, Crowley whines.

“You liked that did you?” Lucifer’s voice is amused and Crowley barely registers it, too lost in his body thrumming with want. He nods breathlessly and the serial killer laughs. “Definitely a cock-tease aren’t you, Agent? Looking like you do and acting all desperate and moaning like a whore while I fuck you with my fingers. It suits you.” Lucifer adds a third finger, rougher than he was with the first two and Crowley cries out at the burning sensation it causes. “You were made for this, I think.”

“Made to be fucked like the desperate cock-whore you are,” the serial killer says, pulling his fingers out before Crowley’s stretched enough and lining up his cock. The hand around Crowley’s cock stops at the tip, finger and thumb curling around it tightly and making him hiss. “Beg me for my cock, Agent. Beg me to fuck you now, hard and fast. To use you like a cheap whore.” The finger and thumb around Crowley’s cock twist, sliding down slowly, making him tremble. “_Beg. Me_.”

“Please.” Crowley’s voice is wrecked. _He’s_ wrecked. “_Please_.”

Lucifer grips Crowley’s hip with his free hand, holding him still as the serial killer pushes his cock into Crowley’s hole, still tight and tense but loose enough that nothing tears. It makes Crowley’s tense up. He tries to buck his hips up and _away _from the cock splitting him in two but Lucifer’s hand pins his hips to the bed, makes it impossible for him to do so. All Crowley can do is breathe through it. The hand on his cock works its way up and down, the tight circle of finger and thumb agonising in a way all it’s own and Crowley focuses on it to try and ignore the way his hole is burning.

The serial killer pauses when he’s fully seated inside the agent, giving Crowley some time to adjust to the cock inside him. It’s thick, wide, and _long_ in a way that Crowley thinks a cock shouldn’t be _all at once_. He should thank him, thank Lucifer, for giving him this time to adjust. He knows that the serial killer doesn’t need to do anything for Crowley’s benefit, that it’s not _really _for Crowley’s benefit either. But… it’s his ass that’s filled with a cock and the adjustment time is appreciated for that fact alone.

“Thank you,” he near-whispers, barely audible but Lucifer hears it. The serial killer looks at him. “F-for letting me—adjust.”

Lucifer gives him a strangely soft smile. It seems so out of place and jarring that Crowley is struck by the fact that the serial killer looks very charming when he smiles like that. It’s distracting enough that Crowley doesn’t immediately realise the serial killer is pulling his cock out of Crowley’s hole until he registers the feeling of a void inside from it. He whines, gasping at the feel of Lucifer’s cock withdrawing to the tip, only the head inside still, and the serial killer pauses there. Crowley moans deep in his throat, head back. He tries to press down on the cock, grinding down on the tip but it’s not enough and he keens, bucking up a little when Lucifer’s finger and thumb glide down his cock.

“F-fuck!” Crowley throws his head back, writhing on the bed, legs wrapping around Lucifer. “Fuck!”

The motion of Crowley’s legs wrapping around Lucifer’s middle catches the serial killer off-guard because he jerks his hips, driving his cock back inside Crowley’s hole and the agent moans loudly at the sensation.

“Desperate aren’t you?” Lucifer says but his voice is strained to Crowley’s hearing and the agent rolls his hips as best he can, revelling in the cock buried in his ass and the hand around his cock. “Impatient little whore of a thing.”

“Y-yes,” Crowley breathes, his arms so tense the muscles are cramping up but he can’t stop shaking from the _sensation_ of Lucifer’s cock inside him, the way it _burns_ and he gasps weakly. “I- I need- fuck! Please!”

Lucifer’s hips snap forward and Crowley _howls_. The serial killer pulls back, hand around Crowley’s cock working him in time with the thrusting of his hips, setting a pace that has Crowley thrashing on the bed, mind completely gone.

After the constant working of his cock by Lucifer, it doesn’t take long for Crowley to come, cock spurting in Lucifer’s hand as the serial killer keeps working his cock until there’s nothing left for Crowley to give. Even then, Lucifer doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking into Crowley, stroking his softening cock and it’s so, so much _sensation_. It burns like fire and freezes like ice. Chokes him like a bag over his head and electrocutes him like a bolt of lightning. It has his thrashing more violently on the bed, tears falling from the _agony_ of it and Lucifer just keeps fucking into him.

If Crowley could speak, he’d be begging Lucifer to _stop please, please stop! _but he can barely draw in a breath as his body burns from the inside out and Lucifer keeps fucking into him. The thrusts of Lucifer’s cock are agonising in a way that Crowley can’t describe and become more and more erratic the longer the serial killer fucks him.

“Fuck you’re still so tight, it’s fantastic,” Lucifer groans, burying his cock as deep as he can inside Crowley, stilling and Crowley feels the way Lucifer’s cock pulses inside him, spurting his cum inside his ass, burning hot and filling. “I—I could fuck you _all day_, Agent.”

Crowley whines, the hand around his cock finally stopping it’s torture and he flops against the bed. Boneless. Spent. Lucifer’s cock is still buried in his ass, cum inside too, and Crowley just doesn’t care. He’s done. Lucifer can do whatever else he wants now. Crowley is shutting down.

He’s done.

The hand on Crowley’s hip releases its grip, the action making Crowley register the ache of bruises from where Lucifer has gripped so tightly. He hadn’t even noticed before now. Eyes closed, Crowley doesn’t realise what’s happening until Lucifer’s hand curls around his throat and his eyes open sluggishly. His heart is too exhausted to pound as fiercely as it should while Lucifer stares down at him with cold, empty eyes.

There’s no sign of the soft smile that distracted Crowley before. Nothing of any sort of personality before, superficial and glib but _something_. Lucifer’s eyes are dark and like blackholes, ingesting every bit of light and life they can, churning it all up and feeding without regret or shame. Crowley weakly struggles when the hand around his throat starts to tighten but he’s weak already and it’s already hard enough to breathe that his struggles soon slow to a stop. The shifting of his body jostles Lucifer’s cock inside him and Crowley swears he can feel it hardening inside him already.

He’s going to be fucked to death apparently. Or to unconsciousness. Crowley… Crowley is okay with that. He’ll be unconscious. He won’t be aware. It’s better- it’s better than being gutted or fucked raw and dying from internal bleeding. It’s… it’s _kinder_.

Probably about as kind as Lucifer can get.

The last thing Crowley knows is Lucifer leaning down and pressing his lips to Crowley’s head, hips starting to rock and thrust his cock inside him again. The sensations flood Crowley’s oxygen-starved mind and make him gasp out the last of the air in his lungs that burn and boil.

That’s all Crowley knows and it’s not so bad, considering. He only hopes Lucifer won’t mutilate his body when he’s done with it. His father doesn’t need to see that.

* * *

The sound of sirens is faint but it’s the first noise he registers. His arms are still above his head, handcuffs still on but instead of his belt, he’s tied to it with a curtain tie. There’s something covering his eyes and material in his mouth making it impossible for him to speak and he groans, trying to push it out with his tongue. It doesn’t budge however, held in place by another curtain tie. Crowley thrashes in the bed, freezing when he realises he’s _clothed_.

That, more than anything, is the most disorienting thing about this whole situation. His ass aches like there’s something inside it or has been that he’s missing somehow, and his whole body is a mixture of aches and pains but he’s clothed and _alive_.

Fuck he’s _alive_.

The sirens grow louder, getting closer, and Crowley doesn’t know for sure, doesn’t know how, but he knows they’re for him. They’re coming for _him_. He’s- he’s _safe_.

“Don’t tell them I was here this long,” Lucifer’s voice comes from his right and Crowley tenses on the bed. “Give me an hour at least. I promise not to kill anyone if you do that. And I’ll know if you do.”

Crowley could tell them that Lucifer is a cop. They both know he can do that. But Crowley doesn’t know _where_ Lucifer is a cop. Doesn’t know the county, the precinct. Doesn’t know anything other than the fact that the serial killer has multiple badges and is law enforcement.

“I’ll be watching, Agent,” Lucifer says, further away, and Crowley realises he’s at the door to the motel room. “If you ever want a good fucking—well—I’ll know.”

The door opens, footsteps on concrete sound, the door shuts, and Crowley is alone in the motel room.

The sirens are louder but still five, ten minutes off and he lies there on the bed, listening to them and trying to remember how to breathe. He’s alive and he’s not sure that’s a good thing.

He’s alive and Crowley’s not sure he wants to be.

Fuck.

Lucifer definitely fucked him good style.

Crowley still won’t regret shooting him in the fucking face though when the time comes. He’ll just have more reasons to do it now.

**Author's Note:**

> So.... yeah... comments and kudos? ':D


End file.
